


The Death of the Author is the Birth of a Narrative

by rosewaterfish



Category: Markiplier Egos, Video Blogging RPF, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Markiplier the host, markiplier the author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewaterfish/pseuds/rosewaterfish
Summary: Now that his eyes are gone, The Author’s narrations are the only thing that ground him in the physical world. How much of an author can he really be if all he can do now is observe? he dare not write himself back into the narrative. He dare not continue his legacy as the Author
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	The Death of the Author is the Birth of a Narrative

He felt as if everything he was, as a writer, as a person had been taken away from him. His books that he would never get to read, the stories he would never have the opportunity to write. Leaving him with nothing but darkness, pain and this swelling emptiness inside his chest.

But books were not the stories. No books were merely records of impossible worlds neatly bound together in volumes. No his stories went far beyond that. They were his thoughts, spun together perfectly into words, into sentences. Thoughts that were all still here stored inside his broken mind.

Strings of jumbled words and sentences hung before him, weaving out intricate webs and branches, and before he could stop himself or his ebbing curiousity, he gently took one, following the thin string of thoughts, smoothing it out until the jumbled words turned into coherent sentences. Slowly but surely, he traced his hand along the string, reading the words aloud.

“The room the author was in was small and dark, with a tiny cot pulled up into the corner of the room and a desk on the other side”

The more he read the clearer he could envision the room in his head.

“More detail” he asked and the string complied, giving him sentence after sentence of minuscule details about the room until he had it mapped out in his head. A sort of outline of his surroundings.

Every sound he heard, every smell would give the string more words to play with. pain and sorrow came first, then warmth or the fresh smell of coffee in the morning and the texture of the uncomfortable sheets of his little bed.

descriptions were tricky and would often prove inaccurate, something he had to learn the hard way when he bumped into the little wooden bed stand he had thought was several feet further away from him.

Actions however proved much easier to follow and visualize. 

He didn’t let go of the string, curling it around his fingers as he read every movement, smell or sound aloud. The first time someone spoke he winced at the loud unexpected noise. Slowly he learned to turn the nonsensical sounds, vibrating off his eardrum into sentences he could read aloud through the vibrations of the string of words he held in his hand.

He read the words aloud as the doctor spoke them, words of concern, words directed towards him and he wanted to answer. But as he opened his mouth to answer, the steady flow of narrations that so helpfully poured from him stopped. He fumbled with the string of wordsas it slid out of his grasp and for the first time since he woke up he was speechless.

The world around him lost definition and he was once again shrouded in complete darkness. Alone. He floundered in the darkness of his mind, desperately trying to find the string of thoughts again. It glowed faintly as if it had heard his cries and he grabbed it, relieved that the moment of darkness and terror had faded.

Responding meant letting go of the words. The words that held his little world together, it meant changing the story, being a part of it and shrouding the outcomes in darkness and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

Instead he kept reading from the string. Reciting the doctors mannerisms and appearances. His worried expression or how he wrung his hands when he got nervous.

What an author he was. He wasn’t writing this story. He could barely bring himself to be a part of it. No, he wasn’t the author anymore. Merely an observer as he allowed events to unfold before him. Nothing but a narrator or a radio host serving as the link between the viewers and the stories and shows they had come to see.

Thats all he was. Not an author, just a host


End file.
